So many lives put to an end. Entire clans decimated and cast down from whatever glory they once held. She came with legions at her feet, comprised of pure blooded and tested veteran warriors. She was the general of Yurshei’s mightiest armies and she carried the rank and her name like weapons. Ororah, who came from the tribes in the frozen wastes known as Pol.
The events of their arrival are still somewhat hazy though reports say that ten thousand ships buried their bows into the rocky shores to the North at the same time. From within them burst forth organized numbers unlike any army previously seen in this land. The rock scribes who inhabited the region were no match despite their fierce strength and plentiful numbers.
Next were the clans from the vale just South and those of the river head in the marshes to the East. From there, it was a Southward push. The Polars swarmed like locusts through the valleys and over the hills stripping the land of both resource and pride along the way.
A stand was made, as some of the mightiest came together in the North where Ororah lay her head at night. Swathes of her armies were cut down by these men and women who, in their homeland, were feared and revered for their abilities. And for a day it seemed that those of Pol would be driven from the land. The small army that had gathered around the heroes stood practically beating their fists upon the former stronghold of the rock scribes.
Ororah, now with the mantle of interim Queen and who was never one to cower behind massive stone walls opened the doors, her six lieutenants flanking her on either side having recently returned from their domination and slaughter of the land. She offered herself as though she were aching to have a blade plunged between her breasts.
But of course her bold move was not without condition and consequence. She proposed that the entirety of the rebelling militia be given opportunity to take her life as she sat upon a throne in her newly constructed arena. Of course, her lieutenants would also be present.
A feeble attempt right then and there upon Ororah’s life cost the lives of many of the rebels. It was but a brief glimpse at the chosen lieutenants’ power causing many to flee. Those who remained agreed to the terms and were given one day to prepare.
A poor attempt at strategy found most of the rebels at one another’s throats for the majority of the night. Who should attack when? Where should each warrior position themselves to be most effective? Who would have the honor of killing the bastard figurehead herself once the time came?
None of it mattered.
Poorly organized and with disgust still festering between many, the heroes fell at the hands of Ororah’s lieutenants as if there were mere babes playing in the meadow. Any attempt to regroup was made pointless by the sheer overpowering force of nature that was Pol’s best warriors.
With a smile, the fat queen rose from her throne and had left the arena, sure to step over the fallen as if they were mere rubble in the aftermath. Those who survived by mere tendons and nerve endings were unlucky enough to be arrested and sentenced to rot in the dungeons of their homeland under watchful eye of the newly occupying Polar knights. Shamed by not only the new population of Polars, but those that once called them family, the heroes were dragged out of the arena to the roar of the disappointed or outright gleeful crowd.
And so here you are, “hero”. Restraints digging into your flesh and blood crusted in your nose. Is it even worth trying to get back on your feet?